


Remind Me

by Yessydo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Disability, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yessydo/pseuds/Yessydo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is in a train accident that causes him to lose his arm and most of his memories. Steve is there to help him pick up the pieces, even if Bucky can't figure out why.</p><p>AU where everyone is just normal folks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Steve had been sitting vigil at Bucky’s bedside since he got word of the accident. Even though he knew it wasn’t his fault, he still felt like he had something to atone for. He kept going over the night in his head. If he’d just had a little less to drink, if he’d just gotten on the train with him instead of walking then maybe…  
Maybe what? Steve thought, leaning forward in his chair and letting out a weary sigh. Then he would have been crushed in the derailment and laid up in the coma ward right alongside Bucky, if he survived at all. The rational half of him knew this, knew that self-pity wasn’t going to wake up his best friend or reattach his arm, but that wasn’t the half that was screaming at him right now for not somehow preventing this. That wasn’t the half that would do anything to take Bucky’s place right now in that hospital bed.

 

…

 

He’d gotten the call just shy of 4:30 in the morning, just two hours after he’d left Bucky at the station. Steve covered his ears against the barrage of sound that assaulted them at such an ungodly hour, but reluctantly picked his phone up off the nightstand. He didn’t even bother looking at the caller ID; there were only three people who ever called him and only one who would be calling him at this hour.

“What’s the matter, Buck? Lock yourself out again?” He grinned, rolling over onto his back, but the voice on the other end of the line wasn’t Bucky’s.

“I’m sorry, I’m looking for Steve Rogers.” A woman’s voice, harried, nervous and confused said in his ear. Steve sat up, suddenly fully awake.

“Speaking.” His voice was tense, his brow knit.

“Mr. Rogers, I’m calling because you were identified as James Barnes’ emergency contact.” Steve’s gut filled with ice.

“Is he okay?” He asked, knowing the answer. There was a long pause, a minute maybe. Eons most likely, before the woman spoke again.

“We think it would be best if you came down here.”

Steve dressed himself haphazardly and took the steps two at a time on the way out of his building in a haze of near-panic. By the time he got to the emergency room he had no sense of how he got there. He marched with purpose to the nurses’ station, clasping his hands to keep them from shaking.

“I’m looking for James Barnes!” He declared, louder than he had intended. The nurse looked up from her clipboard, startled. Her face softened when she saw how shaken Steve was.

“Steve Rogers?” She ventured. Steve nodded hard.

“That’s right. I got a call—” The nurse stood up and walked around to Steve’s side of the counter.

“Why don’t you come with me for a minute?” She suggested, “Dr. Hill will be able to tell you more than I can.” She began to walk briskly down a hall. Steve shook the cobwebs from his brain and followed at a brisk trot.

 

They found Dr. Hill talking to an intern at the end of the hall. She turned to greet them before Steve’s escort even said a word. There was a confidence that radiated from her, but managed not to obscure the compassion in her demeanour.

“Dr. Hill, this is Mr. Rogers.” The nurse explained. Dr. Hill’s face grew grave. She introduced herself and led Steve to a row of chairs jutting out from the wall.

“Are you a relative of Mr. Barnes’? His spouse?” Dr. Hill asked. Steve shook his head,

“Bucky doesn’t have any family,” he explained, “but we’ve known each other since we were kids. I’m the closest he’s got.” Dr. Hill nodded,

“Right. I don’t know how much you’ve been told—”

“Absolutely nothing.” Steve supplied.

“There was an accident. The train Mr. Barnes was on this morning derailed. He’s been very seriously injured.” Steve nodded along to her words absently. She’d said injured. That meant he was still alive, didn’t it? Dr. Hill went on to enumerate Bucky’s injuries. His left arm had been too badly damaged to save, she said, five ribs cracked, a collapsed lung, a fractured clavicle, skull and a femur broken in three places. “He hasn’t gained consciousness since we brought him in.” She concluded, “We’re concerned that he’s suffered serious cranial damage. Even if he survives surgery, there’s no guaranteeing he’ll wake up.” Steve continued to nod, unaware of his own movements. This was too much, it was all just too much. Bucky had always looked out for him, ever since his days as a scrawny, asthmatic toothpick. Now, the one time he was supposed to return the favour…he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. The guilt alone was overwhelming, not to mention the abject horror at the prospect of losing the closest thing he had to family. Dr. Hill could see all this written across Steve’s face. She ventured a hand on his wrist. He flinched as the contact snapped him out of his terror-guilt spiral and back into the realm of reality.

“I’ve got to go check on your friend. I’ll let you know as soon as he’s out of surgery.”

“Thank you.” Steve breathed. Dr. Hill told him she’d get someone to bring him a cup of coffee. Steve knew he wasn’t going to drink it, but didn’t protest.

 

The days of Bucky’s coma quickly turned to weeks. All the while, Steve sat at his bedside. He spent every moment he wasn’t at work at the hospital. After a few days the staff stopped bothering to ask him to leave when visiting hours ended. They brought food to Bucky’s room, knowing that it would go largely uneaten, but also knowing that the few bites of turkey on rye that Steve did consume were the only sustenance he was taking these days. Sometimes a doctor or nurse would hear Steve talking to Bucky, mostly apologizing for allowing this to happen or asking him gently to wake up. Dr. Hill did her best to keep him in the loop with regards to Bucky’s progress and changes in his condition, but there were only so many ways to say “nothing’s changing”. Steve didn’t want to hear it anyway. The rational half of him knew it was hopeless, but that wasn’t the half that was refusing to let go.

 

…

 

Bucky has a lot of dreams. They’re mostly just old memories projected on his subconscious like classic movies. He dreams of when he and Steve were kids, sitting out on the fire escape of Steve’s place, letting their popsicles melt in the sweltering summer heat because they were too busy talking to eat them. He dreams of the first time they met, of how small Steve looked compared to the boy looming menacingly over him, holding Steve’s inhaler above his head.

“Give it back!” Steve cried, weakly grabbing at the boy’s arm, simply going through the motions as he waited for his inevitable beating. Bucky had no particular reason to intervene, but the sheer unfairness of what he was witnessing was too much. He had tapped the boy on the right shoulder and, when he turned, faked to the left and pushed him to the ground. He stepped between Steve and the boy and held out his hand,

“Give it.” He said. It wasn’t a request. The boy reluctantly returned the inhaler and jogged away, bruised in ego if not in body. Bucky turned to Steve, who was straightening out his hair again.

“Thanks.” He said, sheepishly. Bucky flashed Steve a lopsided grin and handed over the recovered item.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Steve Rogers. What’s yours?”

“James Barnes,” Bucky said, “my friends call me Bucky. You should too.” The smile Steve showed him then hit Bucky in the gut and sent him reeling.

 

Bucky dreams of the time they went to Coney Island when they were fifteen. He looped an arm over Steve’s shoulders as they approached the entrance to the park, marvelling for a moment at what a perfect height he is, at how comfortably his arm fits across the breadth of Steve’s slender shoulders.

“What do you want to do first, pal?” He asked, sweeping his hand over the vast scope of possibility the fairground offered, “Ring toss? The Cyclone? The world is our oyster.” Steve laughed and extricated himself from beneath Bucky’s arm. He shrugged, sheepishly.

“If you take me on the Cyclone I can promise you I’ll throw up.” He said.

“Oh come on.” Bucky insisted, steering his friend toward the end of the line, “Would I let that happen?”  
Steve threw up the second they got off the ride. Bucky rubbed his back as he hunched over a trash can that was almost as tall as he was and bought him a ginger ale to settle his stomach.

“Alright,” Bucky conceded when Steve’s face changed back from green to pink, “maybe we’ll stick to the Wonder Wheel from now on, huh?”

 

Sometimes Bucky dreams the sound of a voice in the darkness or the feeling of a hand on his. It’s those dreams that let him know that all the rest are dreams too. He’d like to wake up, but he’s just so tired, so instead he dreams about the time he spent sharing a tiny studio apartment with Steve after high school. A hotplate and a microwave served them for a kitchen and all dishes were done in the bathroom sink. Every night they’d pull the Murphy bed they were “forced” to share from the wall and “reluctantly” climbed in together. The night always began with the pair sleeping back to back at the edges of the mattress, but by morning the top of Steve’s head was always nestled in the crook of Bucky’s neck. His blond hair is soft under Bucky’s stubbled chin and it’s all he can do not to run his fingers through it.

“Wake up, Bucky.” He hears Steve murmur against his chest. Bucky laughs, but then the warmth beside him fades. “Please wake up.” Steve says again, and suddenly he’s not there anymore. Bucky’s not in their apartment. He can’t even remember what it looks like. He tries to remember who was just there with him, but his mind just grasps at blank space. The voice is saying it’s sorry, but he can’t figure out what for. Suddenly, Bucky is choking. There’s something rigid in his throat. It hurts to breathe. He coughs, his dreams replaced with a painful, burning light as his eyes fly open. There’s a man standing at his bedside, eyes wide and fearful, and there’s something unplaceable but familiar about him. He reaches out toward Bucky, but he is swallowed in a sea of scrubs and white coats. The doctor’s pull a long tube from Bucky’s mouth and suddenly he can breathe again. Everything seems to calm down after that. All the medical staff leave his room except for the brown-haired doctor. She looks at the monitors and checks his IVs.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Barnes?” She asks, shining a pen light in his eyes. The name she uses doesn’t sound familiar, but he figures it must be his name.

“The man in my room…” Bucky is astonished at how hoarse he sounds.

“He just stepped outside,” she explains, “it’s alright.”

“I knew him.” He tries to say more, but exhaustion stops the words before they find their way out of his mouth.

“It’s okay to go back to sleep. You’ve got to be tired.” The doctor says, laying a hand on his shoulder. Before he drops off into sleep again he notices that he can’t feel his left arm.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Hill wouldn’t let him see Bucky straight away. 

“He really just needs to rest right now.” Dr. Hill explained, “Coming out of a coma is a very taxing experience. We don’t want to put too much strain on him just yet.” Steve felt like there was something else, something she was hesitant to tell him, but didn’t push it. She went on, “You really ought to go home and get a decent night’s sleep tonight. Come back in the morning and we’ll talk about what the next step is.” 

“Right.” Steve agreed, reluctantly. As he brought himself to his feet he realized for the first time in weeks how exhausted he truly was. He’d been running on adrenaline and the occasional sip of coffee for close to a month, and it was finally catching up with him. He rubbed his temples as he became aware of a faint buzzing behind his eyes, not quite a headache but threatening to mature into one if he didn’t eat something soon. He was dreading going back to an apartment bereft both of company and of food, but Dr. Hill was right, he needed to go home. He couldn’t in good conscience see Bucky with circles this dark under his eyes, his hair mussed up from sleeping in a chair, it would just worry him. Bucky had always worried about Steve, ever since they were kids. Steve could never be sure how to feel about that fact. He was always grateful to have someone looking out for him, especially after his parents died. Still, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. Not wanting to be a burden to Bucky was one of the main reasons he had sought more permanent treatment for his asthma, why he’d started working out to be able to hold his own in fights. He wanted to be able to repay Bucky for everything he had done, and he wanted that to start right away. In his reverie, Steve had somehow found his way to the parking garage. He heaved a deep sigh as he got behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. He was loath to admit it, but he was looking forward to a night in his own bed for a change.

 

…

 

The man isn’t there when Bucky wakes up again, he’s alone except for the brown-haired doctor. She smiles and her eyes say “good work, soldier”. Bucky tries to speak to her, but his throat is still sore and ragged, so instead he just coughs a couple of times. The brown-haired doctor sits down at the foot of his bed, jabbing the edge of her clipboard into her lap. She explains that he was in a train accident. Bucky nods. He doesn’t remember a train, but he’s willing to take her word for it. She apologizes that they couldn’t save his arm and goes on to explain that he’s going to be discharged the next day. She’s sorry about that too, but apparently there’s nothing she can do.

“Believe me, I’d keep you for another month if your insurance would cover it.” She smiles sadly and gets up. “I’ve got some other patients to check in on. There’s a call button on your bed controls if you need me.” Bucky nods. He hasn’t really been listening to her, instead focusing his mental energy on piecing together what he could of his memories. The doctor had told him that his name was James Buchanan Barnes and he’s repeated that to himself often enough over the course of the day that it’s started to sound familiar again. What he still can’t place, though, is where his brain keeps coming up with “Bucky”. Who the hell is Bucky? He asks himself internally. He can hear the echo of a voice inside his head, something from a half-remembered dream.

“Wake up, Bucky.” The voice is not his own, but he can’t put a face to it one way or another. He closes his eyes and tries to picture someone saying those words. At first there’s only darkness and that voice floating in the aether of his consciousness. Slowly, though, an image begins to form. Blond hair, blue eyes, a slender frame. He knows this man. That’s the only thing he can be sure of.

 

…

 

Steve got to the hospital bright and early the next day, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He had forgotten how a good night’s sleep felt. That, combined with the comforting knowledge that Bucky was awake and well, gave him a spring in his step as he approached the nurses’ station.

“Mr. Rogers!” Dr. Hill called, stepping off the elevator and waving to him with her clipboard.

“Steve.” Steve corrected. Dr. Hill shrugged. She began to walk down the hall, gesturing for Steve to follow.

“You’re here early.” She remarked, “That’s good. We need to talk about Mr. Barnes’ discharge.” Steve stopped in his tracks.

“Whoa, wait, discharge?” He repeated, “What, already?” Dr. Hill nodded.

“I’m afraid so. His insurance doesn’t extend far enough for us to keep him any longer now that he doesn’t require active care.” Steve’s mouth dropped open, his head shook in disbelief.

“You can’t be serious.” He crossed his arms, defiantly, “This is…” Dr. Hill nodded again,

“I know, but there’s really nothing we can do. It’s ‘the rules’.” Steve sighed and ran a hand down his face.

“So, what was it you needed me to know?” 

“Right, right, of course. Due to the cranial damage your friend has suffered, he can’t be left alone during his recovery.”

“What kind of damage?” Steve asked.

“The memory centres of his brain were seriously affected by the accident. He…barely remembers who he is. There’s also some fine motor damage in his remaining arm. If we’re going to let him go, which we have to, he’s going to have to be in someone’s care. You mentioned he doesn’t have any family…” Steve clasped his hands behind his head. 

“You want me to do it?” He demanded, nearly dumbfounded. Dr. Hill nodded. “But if he doesn’t know who he is how’s he going to remember me? If as far as he’s concerned he’s living with a stranger, it might as well be one who’s trained for this sort of thing!” Steve was, of course, more than willing to step up to the plate in his best friend’s time of need, but the thought of making things worse than he already had terrified him. Dr. Hill reached into her clipboard and retrieved a business card.

“As long as you promise not to tell Dr. Fury, you can call me any time you need help.” She held the card out to Steve, but retracted it a moment later, 

“Oh, before I forget, this is the name of a really great physiotherapist who does a lot of work pro bono. As soon as James is up to it you should give her a call.” Steve took the card and tucked it into his wallet.

“Thanks.” He said, and was surprised to find that he genuinely meant it.

“I’m sorry there wasn’t more we could do.” Dr. Hill replied, “Now come on, let’s go see him.”

 

Steve thought Bucky looked pretty good, all things considered. He had, of course, seen better days, but he was alive. Steve stood in the doorway of his room for a long time, watching his friend struggle with a spoonful of fruit salad, the shaking fingers of his right hand unable to grasp the implement without rattling its contents free. Steve cleared his throat loudly and Bucky turned his head to face him. His hair had grown out and now fell in messy strands in front of his eyes, sunken and ringed with dark shadows. There was no recognition in his gaze. Steve wondered who Bucky thought he was.

“Hey Buck.” He said, tentatively taking a few steps into the room. Bucky cocked his head like a dog, letting his fruit fall without a second glance.

“Is that what people call me?” He asked. Steve huffed out a laugh, he wasn’t sure why, it just seemed like the only appropriate reaction.

“Only your friends.” He said. 

 

…

 

The man from the other day is pushing him in a wheelchair toward the hospital entrance. He’s not sure why the chair is necessary as he’d proven earlier that he can manage on crutches just fine. The man is talking to him, explaining that they’re going to stop at Bucky’s house to pick up some clothes. There’s something very unsettling about the man, who’s name is Steve apparently. Bucky can’t help but think that his voice doesn’t belong to him.

“Are you a nurse?” He asks when they reach Steve’s car. Steve’s face falls as he helps Bucky into the passenger seat.

“No, Bucky, I’m Steve. You’ve known me your whole life, remember?” Bucky shakes his head, his face blank. Steve sighs sadly and Bucky feels guilty. He wants to believe Steve, wants to trust him, but everything before yesterday morning is still blank.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles as Steve buckles him in. Steve doesn’t say anything, but pats him on his good shoulder reassuringly.

Bucky isn’t sure what he was expecting of Steve’s apartment, but when he limps through the door into the vestibule it seems fitting. It’s tidy but not sterile, lots of natural light and the walls are lined with framed panels from classic comic books. Steve jogs past him, two of Bucky’s suitcases tucked under his arms, 

“S’cuse me, Buck.” He says before disappearing into an adjacent room. He emerges a moment later empty-handed and gestures behind him with a dopey, hapless grin. “Bed’s all made up for you if you want to lie down.” He says, “If not, you know, there’s the TV or, uh, books, I guess.” Steve brushes past Bucky again, heading back toward the doorway.

“Where are you going? Bucky asks, brow knitting with concern.

“Just to the store. I’ll be half an hour, I promise. My number’s on that pad of paper by the couch if you need anything.” And with that, he’s gone. Bucky laboriously makes his way to the couch and flops down onto the cushions, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

 

…

 

Steve cursed himself for running away like that, but justified his behaviour by reminding himself that they really didn’t have any food in the house. Now he stood in the dairy section of the supermarket, wracking his brain for something to put in his basket. He knew that Bucky had never met a lasagna he didn’t like, but that was the old Bucky. Maybe this new Bucky who couldn’t even remember Steve’s face had also forgotten that he loved lasagna more than life itself. Once he realized that he’d been staring at a tub of ricotta cheese for the last seven minutes, Steve decided it was time to take a leap of faith. He’d make a lasagna so delicious that it would single-handedly return all of Bucky’s memories to him. He triumphantly placed the cheese into his basket and strutted off to find some ground beef. He could do this, they could do this.


	3. Chapter 3

The clock on the DVD player is blocked from where Bucky’s sprawled out, but he knows it’s been longer than half an hour since Steve went to the store. He hoists himself into a sitting position and reaches for his crutches. Bucky hobbles around the room, trying to familiarize this room, commit some of its details to memory. Across from the couch is the shelving unit that holds Steve’s TV. He trails his fingers along the spines of books, reciting their titles out loud in the hopes that one of them will ring a bell. As he works his way along the shelf he eventually comes to a picture frame lying face-down on the wood. He gingerly picks it up. It’s a photo of him, though he looks a few years younger, grinning and clutching his bicep in a cheesy macho pose. He looks so happy in the picture. Bucky tries the smile on for size, but it doesn’t feel natural. He replaces the frame, hiding the photo again. That’s the moment Steve decides to make his entrance, stumbling into the apartment backwards with two loaded grocery bags clutched in his arms. His face lights up when he sees Bucky.

“Oh, you’re up!” He says, pleased surprise evident in his voice, “Sorry I took so long. I, uh, hit some traffic.” Bucky can tell that Steve is unaccustomed to lying.

“No worries.” Bucky replies, making his way back to the couch to lie down again. He ever so slightly miscalculates his angle of approach, putting strain on still bruised ribs. He sucks in a sharp breath and sees Steve’s head whip around out of the corner of his eye.

“You okay, Bucky?” He asks instantly. Bucky can hear the effort he’s putting into sounding nonchalant.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” He assures his caretaker, concentrating on lifting his bad leg onto the ottoman without causing himself any more pain. Steve’s at his side almost immediately, gently lifting him into a comfortable posture.

“Better?” He asks, eyes cast downward. Bucky nods.

“Thanks.” There’s a moment between them just then that threatens to bring something back to Bucky, but there’s still an alien quality to this particular situation. It’s so close to being something he knows, but it’s not quite there. Steve gets up again and returns to the kitchen to finish unpacking his groceries.

“I thought we’d have lasagna tonight,” Steve says hopefully, putting strange emphasis on the suggestion, “maybe watch a movie while we eat. I’d like to re-introduce you to some of the classics. You know, be able to take credit for all the stuff you introduced me to when we were kids.” The ghost of a laugh escapes through Bucky’s nose and even he, in all his surly introspection has to admit that sounds nice. As the aroma of sautéing onions and garlic begin to fill the humble space, Bucky thinks that, with some effort, he might be able to make this place feel a little bit like home.

 

…

 

Steve was exhausted from trying to hide the fact that he was at his wits’ end. This whole round-the-clock caretaker thing had him feeling like he was flying through a minefield by the seat of his pants. Since he woke up Bucky had been so quiet, so distant, so unlike the man Steve had known all these years. He didn’t want to admit how much that scared him, but it did. He was afraid that Bucky’s memories would never come back, that he’d never get to see that goofy, lopsided grin of his except in photographs for the rest of their lives. He’d called Dr. Hill from the grocery store parking lot, already feeling in over his head, to ask for guidance.

“There’s really nothing I can tell you.” She had said, much to Steve’s disappointment, “Memory is such a tricky thing, you’re going to have to go on trial and error.” Steve had thanked her, wearily and insincerely, and begun to formulate his plan. He’d make Bucky his favourite food, they’d watch his favourite movie and then…Steve had no idea. Pray? Wish on a falling star? He’d never felt more powerless, he thought as he stirred a bubbling pot of tomato sauce on the stove. Bucky seemed as close to content as Steve had seen him all day, reading a comic book from his roost on the sofa.

“You do this for a living?” He had asked when he’d noticed Steve’s name on the cover of Winter Soldiers, a graphic novel Steve had illustrated about bionically enhanced rogue Soviet commandos.

“Yeah,” Steve had answered, sheepishly, keeping his eyes on the pot of boiling water in front of him. “You actually bought me that copy for my birthday. I guess you didn’t know I’d get a copy from the publisher.” Steve chuckled. Bucky nodded, taking in the new information and filing it away in his dossier of newly acquired facts about his own life. He lay the book out in his lap and set about getting through as much of it as he could before dinner.

 

“This is pretty special, you know.” Steve said, cuing up his copy of Ghostbusters before bringing over two plates of dinner to the couch, “I get to be here as you experience Ghostbusters for the first time.”

“Well, technically I’ve seen it before,” Bucky corrected, stabbing a pre-cut bite of lasagna with his fork, “I think.”

“Semantics.” Steve scoffed, pressing play. He spent more time watching Bucky than the movie itself, and was relieved to find him laughing at all the same parts that he used to.

“Oh, this part’s familiar.” He remarked during Pete Venkman’s showdown with Slimer. His face lit up during Bill Murray’s famous line. “He slimed me!” He quoted along. They looked at each other in astonishment for a moment before Steve smiled.

“I guess it’s all still in there.” He said, patting Bucky on his good leg. It was bittersweet for Steve. It was great that after only a couple of days Bucky was making so much progress, but it stung that lines from ‘80s movies seemed to take priority in his memory over a relationship that had lasted most of their lives. He wanted to reach out to Bucky, loop an arm around his shoulder like Bucky used to do to him, but he seemed too fragile now. Everything about their lives seemed to be at a tipping point and Steve was afraid he’d push them in the wrong direction. He watched the rest of the movie in silence.

 

…

 

Bucky feels a little guilty taking Steve’s bed. He supposes he needs it more, but he was perfectly comfortable on the couch earlier. He stares at the pyjama pants laid out on the duvet beside him and wonders how he’s going to transfer them onto his person. The last time he’d changed clothes was back at the hospital and then he’d had a nurse to zip him into his jeans. He feebly fiddles with the button at the top of his fly, but to no avail. His hand is still clumsy and unsteady. He’s still not used to the idea of missing his arm. He really does feel like he’s lost everything. A knock on the door startles him out of his contemplation and Steve pokes his head through the door.

“Sorry,” He says, treading awkwardly over the threshold, “I’m just going to grab my alarm clock.” He grabs it off his nightstand and is about to leave when Bucky calls out.

“Wait!” He says, stiffly. He can feel his cheeks burning.

“What’s up?”

“I…” Bucky hesitates. He can’t believe he’s forced to ask this of a man he barely knows, “I need your help.” Steve cocks an eyebrow, clearly not catching his meaning. He gestures with his head to the pyjamas and Steve’s eyes go wide.

“Oh!” He gasps, putting down the alarm clock again, “Of course! Sure, I can do that, just, uh…” Steve takes a step forward and Bucky tenses. Steve laughs uncomfortably, “I’m sorry,” he goes on, “this is a little weird.” Bucky doesn’t say anything. Steve kneels down so they’re on roughly the same level and reaches for Bucky’s waistband. Bucky sucks in a breath as Steve’s fingers undo his fly.

“Can you lift your hips a little bit?” Steve asks, mechanically. Bucky does his best and Steve slides the pants down and onto the floor. Bucky looks down at his legs, scarred and gnarled from where the bones had to be reset. He absently runs his hand over the top of the sleek brace that encapsulates his right thigh. Steve slides the pyjama pants up Bucky’s legs, his hands lingering on his hips for just a moment before he lets go and stands up again. He helps Bucky into bed and lays the covers down on top of him.

“Goodnight, Buck.” He says from the doorway.

“Goodnight.” Bucky echoes, and then he’s alone again. He folds his arm across his body and lays his palm over his empty shoulder. He falls asleep like that, hoping that this is the only piece of himself that can’t be recovered.

 

…

 

Steve tucked his sheets between the cushions of the couch for the third time in five minutes. His mind was elsewhere, his hands working by rote. He’d tried, he really had. Tried to disregard his own stupid feelings for the good of his friend’s recovery. For a moment he almost envied Bucky’s amnesia. At least he wasn’t still hung up on something that happened six years ago. Even then it had barely happened. New Year’s Eve was a night people wrote off, wasn’t it? An excuse to do something stupid without anyone thinking anything of it the next day. 

They’d both had a little too much champagne and there was no way in hell Bucky was going to let the clock strike midnight without a kiss from somebody. They were out on the fire escape of that run-down studio they called home, the cuffs of their pants getting damp in the snow, listening to their neighbours’ party across the alley. 

“Too bad we won’t be able to see the fireworks from here.” Steve remarked. Bucky shrugged and took another pull off the bottle before offering it back to Steve. Revellers emphatically counted down from ten and as Auld Lang Syne began to play, Steve felt a hand settle on his shoulder. He turned and looked up at Bucky.

“Happy New Year, punk.” A pair of lips gently brushed Steve’s, remaining for the briefest of moments before moving away again. His eyes and Bucky’s locked together and they were in limbo, neither sure how to react. Soon, though, Bucky’s face fell into that easy grin that had been sending Steve’s stomach into knots since they were in elementary school. He laughed and Steve followed suit.

“Jerk.” He smirked, gently wiping his mouth, if only to feel the last traces of the warmth Bucky had left there.

They’d never really talked about it. Steve knew it was just supposed to be a joke, that not every gesture between friends had to carry the weight of the world behind it. In their youth Bucky had been a notorious ladies man, there was no way he’d suddenly drop that and go gay for sickly, shrimpy Steve Rogers. Even when he got less sickly and less shrimpy, it was still out of the question. A pang of guilt jabbed him in the gut as he lay down. Bucky needed him and he was too busy pining and moping to think of anyone but himself. God, he hadn’t even called that physiotherapist to set up an appointment, what kind of caretaker was he? As he turned out the light he vowed he would do better. He would take care of Bucky. He owed him that.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve calls the physiotherapist’s practice as they finish breakfast the next morning. Bucky tries to help with the dishes, but Steve lays a hand on his shoulder to keep him in his seat.

“Don’t worry about it, Buck, I’ve got this.” He slides the phone into the crook of his neck to free up his hands for their plates. Bucky notices himself beginning to space out. He hears Steve talking to what he assumes to be Dr. Romanov’s receptionist, but the actual words being spoken go in one ear and out the other. He’s had the theme from Ghostbusters stuck in his head since last night, which he takes to be a good sign. He hums it under his breath for a few minutes until Steve hangs up and sits back down across from him.

“Thursday.” He says and Bucky perks up like he’s missed something. Steve clarifies, “Dr. Romanov’s got an appointment you can take on Thursday. 1:35 in the afternoon if that works.” Bucky nods slowly.

“Well my schedule’s pretty busy, but I think I could move some things around.” Steve laughs, flashing an impossibly white smile at Bucky. He can’t help but smile a little back.

“That’s great.” He says, “I’ll let her know.” Steve gets back up and re-enters the kitchen to wash up. Bucky tries to get up and help, but this time its the pain in his joints that keeps him in his seat.

 

Steve had planned to take them out to the park that afternoon, but Bucky comes down with a splitting headache right before lunch and is forced to sequester himself in the dark. The pain is intense and accompanied by flashes of what look like black sunspots in the corners of his vision. He screws up his face reflexively, which just makes everything worse. Steve knocks ever so gently on the door before making his way inside. Bucky doesn’t open his eyes, but he can smell tomato soup and grilled cheese.

“Here,” He says, carefully resting the tray on the bedside table, “have something to eat if you’re up to it.” He feels the mattress shift under Steve’s weight and then feels a wave of relief as something soft and cold is placed over his forehead. He lays his hand over the rag and his face finally relaxes. He breathlessly thanks Steve and lifts himself into a half-sitting position. Steve deftly adjusts the pillows behind his back for better support. He hands Bucky two Advil and a glass of water before laying the tray out in front of him. The pain is too great for Bucky to grip the spoon or the sandwich, so Steve takes care of that aspect for him.

“I’m sorry, Steve.” He mutters between bites. Steve shakes his head.

“It’s not your fault. This is why I’m here.” Seemingly without thinking, Steve reaches out a brushes a stray crumb from the corner of Bucky’s mouth. Steve quickly redirects, choosing instead to pluck at a lock of Bucky’s hair. “You’re overdue for a haircut, Buck.” He comments, “I can do it when you’re feeling a little better. You know, if you want.” Bucky nods, then tells Steve he’d like to rest. Steve obligingly clears the tray and helps Bucky lie down again without displacing the rag still perched on his brow. He asks Bucky to let him know if he needs anything, but then leaves him in peace. If you could call it that.

…

 

Bucky’s head seemed to have calmed down by dinner time. He emerged from Steve’s room, leaning on the door frame for support. Steve asked him if he wanted his crutches but he shook his head, saying he wanted to try moving without them for a little bit.

“I’m not going to get better relying on crutches.” He explained. Steve didn’t feel like fighting him over it. Instead, he smirked,

“You just want to show off for Dr. Romanov.” He was pleasantly surprised when Bucky laughed. It ended with a wince, though, and Bucky had to sit down again.

“These ribs are a real bitch.” He commented, “I’ve been trying not to breathe. Everything seems to just make it worse.”

“Did you take any of the painkillers Dr. Hill prescribed?” Steve asked, trying to pace his concern so as not to sound like he thought he was Bucky’s mother.

“It’s not that bad.” He replied, dismissing Steve’s worry with a wave of his hand, “You need any help with dinner? I can’t chop anything but I can stir a mean pot of water.” He flexed his right arm and grinned. The image he cut was like a punch in the sternum that sent Steve reeling. He tried to smile  
back, but couldn’t be sure how convincingly he managed it.

“That’s okay, thanks.” He said, turning to look in the fridge, “Oh, by the way, I’m technically back on the job tomorrow. I work from home, though, so if you need me I’ll be down the hall.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of his study. 

“I’d like to see some more of your work.” Bucky said. Steve couldn’t fathom why that thought made him so nervous. Growing up Bucky had always been the first person he’d gone to when he drew something. He’d been so desperate for someone’s approval and Bucky was always happy to oblige. He turned to face Bucky again, having corralled his face into something resembling composure.

“Sure.” He said, brightly, “After dinner.”

 

…

 

Bucky spends most of the evening flipping through Steve’s sketchbooks. He really is incredibly talented. Most of his more recent drawings are of brightly-clad superheroes in dramatic, dynamic poses, but what really draws Bucky’s eye are the portraits. He doesn’t recognize most of them, but the way Steve draws them makes him feel like he’s known them for years. He tells Steve so and it makes him blush. He finishes looking at a detailed charcoal drawing of Steve’s mother and turns the page, surprised to see a crude rendering of a young man’s face. It takes him a few moments to realize it’s supposed to be a young Steve. The real Steve laughs beside him. Bucky looks up at him, inquisitively,

“What is this?” He asks.

“A gift.” Steve begins.

“From who?” Bucky demands in response. That just makes Steve laugh harder.

“From you.” He answers. Bucky regards him intently, waiting for an explanation. “When we were in junior year we went on a school trip to Europe with our art class. On our last day in London you and I went with Monty Falsworth and Jim Morita - I don’t know if you remember them at all - anyway, the four of us went to Camden Lock. At some point I got my portrait done and you thought I got ripped off, said the picture was crap and that you could do better. You convinced me to throw away the one I paid for and that night on the train to France you drew me this.” Bucky shakes his head in disbelief,

“Jesus, I am so sorry.” He cracks a smile, “His drawing must have been shit if you kept this one, though.”

“It was a stunning likeness, actually, but I still kind of like this one better.” He looks at the clock and points out the hour, “I should get to bed, which unfortunately means kicking you back into my room.” He helps Bucky into his pyjamas and it’s much less strange than last night, for both of them it seems. Steve’s less delicate with him, which Bucky appreciates. He doesn’t need to feel any more broken by being coddled. He lies back and his eyes begin to droop almost immediately. The one advantage of both having a brain injury and being heavily medicated is that sleep is an absolute breeze. Still, Bucky wishes he would have some dreams.

 

…

 

Four days passed with relative swiftness and before either man knew it, Thursday morning was upon them. Steve had told the publishers that he wouldn’t be getting anything done that day, so when he woke up at 8:30 as usual it just meant he’d have plenty of time to get whatever errands they had out of the way. To his surprise, Bucky woke up not long after him and suggested they go out for breakfast. Steve had just finished a couple of slices of toast and jam, but was happy to oblige.

“Sure thing. What’re you in the mood for?” He asked. 

“There’s a diner we used to go to, I think” he said, “or at least I did. I have a vague memory of cream cheese pastries.”

“You’re almost definitely thinking of Thomasa’s.” Steve supplied, “You used to have a thing for the mizithra pies there.”

“You want to see if I still do?” 

 

They hadn’t been to Thomasa’s in a dog’s age, but it wasn’t surprising when the woman herself recognized them and made her way to their table. She’d finally let herself go completely grey, and it was about time because she must be pushing ninety. She wore bright blue eyeshadow and red lipstick that would look clownish on anyone else, but were just so quintessentially Thomasa. She left some of that lipstick on Steve’s cheek when she kissed him, wrapping her frail, bony hands around his shoulders as she greeted them.

“Where have you boys been?” She called through the small restaurant. She patted Steve on the chest affectionately, “I see someone else has been feeding you. You know I remember a time when I could wrap one hand around your waist. God, look at you now!” Steve just grinned and shook his head,

“It hasn’t been that long.” He said, “How’ve you been?” She didn’t answer, turning her attention instead to Bucky. Her face went pale when she saw the state of him and she raised a hand to her chest.

“James Barnes, is that you?” She asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. Bucky shrugged.

“That’s what they tell me.” He said. They both saw her eyes dart over to where Bucky’s crutches were standing, propped up against the side of their booth. Steve quickly jumped in,

“Could we get some coffee, Thomasa?” She turned her head back to Steve.

“Of course,” she said, getting out a pad of paper from her apron and a pen from behind her ear, “are you going to be having your usual as well?” 

“Absolutely, that’d be great.” Thomasa shuffled off to the kitchen with their order and Bucky could breathe again. “Sorry about that.” Steve said, “She’s known us forever. Sometimes I think she forgets that we’re not actually her grandsons.” Bucky smiled a little bit at that, but said nothing. Their breakfast was fairly quiet, though much less awkward than Steve was expecting. 

“Oh man,” Bucky said, taking a bite of his mizithra pie, “you were right, these are amazing.” Thomasa came back to ask them how their food was and grill them for information on their lives. To Steve’s surprise, she didn’t ask Bucky about his arm, though she did comment on his scraggly hair. They settled up and Thomasa made them promise they’d be back in fewer than a couple years this time. Steve checked the time on his phone when they got back out into the street and was amazed to find that it was almost noon.

“We’ve got a little bit of time before your appointment.” He remarked, “How about a little lunch? As far as you know you’ve never had a Muffuletta at Louie’s.” Bucky shot him a look of disbelief, but happily agreed.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky will never admit that Dr. Romanov sort of terrifies him. It’s not that she’s particularly cruel or unfair, but she is inscrutable. The only thing he knows for certain is that he knows absolutely nothing. She calls him into her office for their initial consultation and Bucky tells Steve to wait outside. He closes the door behind him and she holds out her right hand to shake.

“Natasha Romanov.” She clasps his hand briefly before taking a seat and gesturing for Bucky to do the same. After a second adjusting her line of sight she asks, “Why are you here?” 

“I was in an accident.” He replies, taken aback. Natasha shakes her head.

“No.” She says, “That’s what happened to you. I want to know why you’re here.” 

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters, bringing his hand up to rest on his empty shoulder. 

“That’s what I want you to be thinking about during our sessions. If you don’t have a goal in mind, you’re never going to get better.” Natasha gets out a clipboard and a pen and slides them over to Bucky’s side of the desk, “I noticed you had your friend fill out your intake form, but I want to see what I’m working with, so I’m going to ask you to do it again.” Bucky leans over the paper, a nervous lump forming in his throat. In the waiting room he’d let Steve take care of it for a couple of reasons. Not only was it efficient for someone who had full control over both of their hands, but Bucky also has no idea if he had any allergies to medications or a history of heart problems in the family which, according to Steve, he didn’t even have anymore. He thinks about explaining this to Natasha, but doubts it would make any difference to the task he’s been set to complete. He picks up the pen, his hand as unsteady as ever, and begins to write his name. In his agitation he begins with a B for Bucky instead of a J for James. He freezes and Natasha raises an eyebrow, so he plays it off, writing his surname first. It takes him almost twenty minutes to write a few short sentences and tick a few boxes, but when he hands the paper back to Natasha she smiles.

“Alright.” She says, looking over his work, “Now I at least have some idea of where we start.” She leans back in her chair and claps her hands together, 

“So, how much am I going to have to kick your ass during this process? Be honest.”

 

They watch reruns of Hogan’s Hereos on TV that night as Bucky completes his prescribed exercises.. Steve orders pizza because it’s easy for Bucky to take a couple of bites in between reps. Every now and then he sees Steve looking at him out of the corner of his eye and he feels his ears heat up. Steve’s familiarity with him still makes Bucky uncomfortable. Steve tells him stories about their life before the accident - about Bucky’s life - that he has no way of remembering. There’s a part of him that resents Steve for that. He knows it’s ungrateful to think like that, he knows that if Steve didn’t really care about him then he wouldn’t have opened his home and dropped everything to take care of him for the last week, but he can’t help it. He excuses himself from Steve’s company by 9:00 and climbs into bed, ready for another fitful, dreamless sleep.

 

Except that he does dream tonight. He dreams he’s in London, walking in the sun by the side of a canal. A gentle breeze blows the scents of oil and spices from the food vendors’ stalls toward him. He hears a rustling of paper beside him and turns to see three young men poring over a map. One of them is much shorter than the others, and the only thing Bucky can see peeking out from behind the paper is a streak of golden hair. It occurs to him that it must be Steve. He starts to gesture in the air surrounding them.

“I thought the market was supposed to be east, but I don’t see anything.” He’s flanked by the others, one lanky with a pale, nervous face, the other smirking in effortless disbelief at the state of his companions. 

“Didn’t you fucking grow up in this town, Monty?” Laughs the smirker, whose name, it occurs to Bucky, is Jim. Monty’s lips purse into a tight line.

“We left when I was eight.” He clarifies, pointedly.

“Yeah well your accent stayed behind.” Jim quips. 

“We’re lost, boys.” Says Steve from behind the map. He beckons to Bucky to come look, “Bucky, see if you can make heads or tails of this.” He joins Steve and the two eventually find their current position and orient themselves in relation to their destination.

“See?” Jim scoffs, slapping the map with the back of his hand, “I told you we’re not lost.” Monty shakes his head and groans, but says nothing.

“Come on, dorks.” Bucky says, cuffing each of them upside the head, “Bicker while you walk.” Monty and Jim shrug and start walking again. Bucky waits for Steve to finish folding up the map and slings an arm around his shoulders. “Those two should just get a room, huh?” He says, nodding toward their friends. Steve laughs and Bucky’s entire being effervesces. He rubs his thumb in little circles over Steve’s collarbone, half-hoping he won’t notice, half-hoping he will. Steve swallows hard and looks down at the ground. His smile turns into a near grimace. Bucky takes his arm away and they walk the rest of the way to the market in silence.

 

…

 

Bucky was scowling into his cereal the next morning, picking up spoonfuls of steadily deteriorating corn flakes and letting them drop back into his milk without so much as touching them. Steve sat down across from him, flipping through the news on his phone absently, his attention entirely focused on his surly friend.

“Did you sleep okay?” He ventured. Bucky nodded, then snapped to attention.

“Sorry, what?” Steve smiled, relieved.

“It’s no big deal. You do your Frenkels for the hour yet?” Bucky shook his head.

“Not yet, no.” He went back to examining his cereal for a moment before he lifted his face again to Steve. “Hey, Steve,” he began, the name still sounding forced and unnatural.

“Yeah, what is it?” Bucky sighed and looked away, his face slackened and weary, as though what he was about to say were painful but unavoidable.

“I was wondering…were we…I mean, did we ever…” He closed his mouth tightly, letting the question hang there unspoken. Steve’s throat went bone dry. 

“No.” He said, adamantly, “Never.” Bucky nodded slowly, clearly working through something in his mind.

“Right.” He said, finally, “Okay, yeah.” Steve wondered if he’d been unnecessarily terse a moment ago and forced his face to relax.

“Why do you ask?” He wondered. Bucky shrugged and finally got a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“I think Natasha - Dr. Romanov - thought you were my husband or something.” They both laughed at that. Steve heaved an inward sigh of relief, glad that any tension was broken before it really had a chance to form.

 

After breakfast, Steve suggested they go on an excursion. Bucky had lost some weight during his time in the coma and all his clothes were hanging off his bones.

“We don’t have to buy too much,” he said, “since you’ll probably gain some of it back now that you’re eating solids again, but we’ll at least get you some new pants to tide you over until then.” Bucky happily agreed, always glad to have a chance to get out. He told Steve that Dr. Romanov had assigned him to leave the house for at least an hour every day until their appointment next week, and it always helped to have an actual task in mind. They wound their way down to the mall and tried a couple of different stores, but even then they had everything they needed and it had barely been half an hour.

“We can’t go back for at least another thirty minutes,” Bucky remarked, “what else do people do at the mall? Past the age of sixteen, that is.” Steve shrugged,

“We just need to find something to shop for that’s suitably grown up.” He suggested. Bucky turned and pointed to the window of a nearby shop.

“Suits.” He announced, “Nothing more grown-up than suits, right?” Steve smiled fondly and shrugged, following his friend toward the entrance. 

 

Bucky needed some help with a few aspects of his suit, mainly button-related. An attendant took him into a fitting room while Steve flipped through a row of boxy, unaltered jackets. When, a moment later, Bucky and the attendant returned, Steve had to pick his jaw up off the floor. Even with his scraggly hair, leaning on his crutch, one arm of his jacket pinned up, Bucky was positively dapper. He smiled self-consciously.

“Well?”

“It’s a good look, Buck.” Steve answered, “I think you should buy it.” He held out a blue tie to Steve.

“Do you mind?” Steve shook his head and placed himself in front of Bucky, between him and the mirror. He looped the tie around the back of his neck and started tying a windsor knot. Bucky laughed, a low grumble that Steve could feel resonating in his chest.

“What’s so funny?” He asked.

“I just got a flash of something.” Bucky supplied. Steve perked up as he continued, “This setup just feels very familiar, like you’re going to take me to prom or something.”

“You went to prom with Maggie Altman, although I did have to tie your tie for you. I think I also told you what a corsage was.” Steve finished the tie and smoothed Bucky’s lapels before stepping aside and letting him look at himself in the mirror. He nodded, approvingly, agreeing with Steve’s initial assessment.

“I’m a vision.” He joked, “I’m the belle of the ball.” After a few more minutes messing about he changed back into his civvies and it was time to head home.

“Next time we’ll look at yachts,” Steve commented as they left the store, “speaking of things we can’t afford.” Bucky smiled and slung his arm around Steve’s shoulder. It didn’t feel entirely natural and he only kept it there for a moment, needing to return it to his crutch to keep his balance, but the effect was there. Steve was walking on sunshine for the rest of the day.


	6. Chapter 6

Steve noticed a marked improvement in both Bucky’s condition and his outlook over the next few weeks. Dr. Romanov had been assigning him more complex exercises and challenges which he had relished carrying out. He’d even been getting a few chunks of memory back here and there. The other day while watching Steve play Skyrim he recalled that his birthday was coming up, though he wasn’t exactly sure how old he was turning.

“If Dr. Romanov clears it, we’ll go out for a beer.” Steve said. Bucky nodded, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

“I’m holding you to that, punk.” He said. Steve allowed himself to smile in return, a warmth settling in his breast. Over the last few days especially he had felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. He’d still been blaming himself for Bucky’s accident, but now that it looked as though things were on the upswing he had begun to forgive himself. Their interactions were becoming easy and natural again. Slowly but surely the old Bucky was fighting his way back to life. Of course, there were certain habits that Steve was less pleased to see Bucky reacquainting himself with. Bucky had always been one for physical affection. Whether it was his trademark arm around the shoulder or an emphatic knee-squeeze during an enthusiastic conversation. It had been nice not having to worry about his notorious full-body blush for the few weeks that Bucky had been distant, but now he could feel his ears heating up the minute he walked into the same room. He’d been planning on having a heart-to-heart with Bucky the night of his accident, telling him how he really felt, but the combination of Steve’s cowardice and the astounding amount of liquor he and Bucky had imbibed had caused him to take a rain check. Now it just seemed inappropriate. He didn’t want to pressure Bucky into saying something he didn’t mean because he felt indebted or otherwise obliged. If they were going to have a relationship - of any kind whatsoever - it was going to have to come from both of them, which Steve understood could very easily never happen. Still, he thought, watching Bucky attach a pull-string to the fly of his new jeans, I’d rather have this than have lost him completely.

 

He was surprised when Bucky invited him into Dr. Romanov’s office at their next consultation. 

“I don’t know,” Bucky said when Steve asked him what this was all about, “she just said on the phone that it was good news and that you should hear it too.” They walked into the waiting room and found Natasha leaning on the reception desk, already ready for them. She held out her hand to Steve and the two exchanged introductions before being led into her office. The three of them sat down and Dr. Romanov smiled.

“I’ve got good news.” She said, clearly proud of herself, “I’ve managed to secure you a spot in the trial group of a new line of prostheses.” Bucky looked at Natasha, then at Steve, then back at Natasha, eyes wide. It looked like he was trying to speak, but words simply weren’t forming, so Steve spoke instead.

“That’s great!” He said, almost in as much disbelief as Bucky, “What can you tell us?” Dr. Romanov gathered up a couple of pamphlets from her desk and handed one to each of them. Steve was surprised at the name they bore on their front. “Stark Industries?” He asked, “As in Tony Stark?”

“That’s the one.”

“I thought he made weapons.” Steve said.

“He did,” explained Natasha, “but he’s been working with Wounded Warriors for the last few years. I guess even he’s got a conscience somewhere in there.” Bucky finally added himself to the conversation.

“I never served, though.” He said, looking to Steve for confirmation.

“That’s right.” Steve noted, “How’d you get him into the trial?” Natasha shot them a smile that was at once knowing and nonchalant.

“He owes me.” She said, simply. “I told him you’ll meet with him tomorrow to see if Bucky’s a good candidate for this trial or if we’ll have to put you in a different one, but either way he should have something for you.” Bucky was still in some shock, so Steve thanked Dr. Romanov for both of them as he led his friend back outside and into the car.

 

…

 

Bucky’s sleep has been coming more fitfully as of late. Ever since his memories have started coming back, he can’t stop having dreams. They’re mostly just rehashings of events and situations he’s remembered throughout the day and he’s amazed at how many of them feature Steve in some way or another, though he supposes if they’ve really been friends their whole lives that shouldn’t be too out of the ordinary. Tonight he dreams of the day they buried Steve’s mother. He and his sister watch as Steve stoically stands beside the open grave. A shovelful of earth is tossed in and makes an ugly smacking sound as it hits the coffin. Bucky winces, but Steve just stands there, his eyes intent, his jaw set. After the service Bucky looks for Steve, but he’s somehow managed to get away in the crowd. Bucky doesn’t catch up with him till they’re back at their building. He follows Steve up the steps, trying to reach out to him, getting dodged at every turn. Finally he manages to corner his friend outside his door.

“I can get by on my own.” Steve says, and the look in his eyes breaks Bucky’s heart right then and there.

“You don’t have to.” Bucky says, plaintively, clasping Steve’s collarbone in one hand, “Cause I’m with you till the end of the line.” That’s when he wakes up. The clock reads 5:45, but Bucky knows he won’t be getting any more sleep tonight, so he just lies back and grasps at the remnants of his dream until it’s time to get up.

 

Neither he nor Steve has any idea of what to expect from their meeting with Tony Stark. They put on button-fronts and slacks and Steve wrestles with the idea of wearing a tie, but they decide that would be a bridge too far. Steve helps Bucky wash his hair and pull it back into a semi-respectable ponytail.

“I should have gotten it cut.” Bucky remarks, but Steve just shrugs.

“No point worrying about that now.” He says, “We’ll remember for the next time we take a meeting with a billionaire playboy philanthropist.” Bucky laughs at that, feeling infinitely better that Steve is with him for this. They arrive at Stark Tower a good ten minutes early even though Natasha warned them Stark would be at least half an hour late. They spend most of that half hour drinking fizzy water in a glass room with backless couches and making awkward small-talk with Stark’s right hand woman, Ms. Potts. When the man himself finally does show up, he’s covered in what looks like motor oil, his shirt is torn and his hair is standing on end as though he’s been electrocuted.

“Sorry for the wait, fellas.” He says, not sounding sorry at all, and extends a hand first to Bucky, then to Steve, “Tony Stark.” Bucky wonders if maybe he’s shaking Steve’s hand for a little longer than necessary, especially considering that this is Bucky’s meeting. “So, Nat tells me you want to be in the arm trial.” He goes on, stepping behind a nearby screen and emerging a moment later in a pristine suit, running a comb through his hair, “Is that right?” He gestures for everyone to sit down again and asks Ms. Potts for more fizzy water for his guests.

“That’s correct.” Bucky answers, “I know you usually work with the military, but—”

“Ah, don’t worry about that. You’re actually doing me a favour. I don’t have nearly enough people in this trial. So, how’d you lose your arm?” Bucky tells Tony everything he can about the accident as Tony jots down notes on a tablet. After a few minutes he nods, enthusiastically.

“Well, Mr. Barnes, from what you’ve told me I can’t see any reason not to include you in our tests. If you’d like to step behind that screen with Pepper she’ll take some measurements and we’ll have you all hooked up in no time.” Ms. Potts leads Bucky to the other side of the room and asks him to remove his shirt. As she goes around the circumference of his shoulder with a tape measure, Bucky peers around the side of the screen and watches Tony converse with a very overwhelmed-looking Steve. Tony sits down next to him on the sofa and starts talking animatedly very close to his face. Bucky narrows his eyes disapprovingly, only to have them shoot open again as Tony places a hand on Steve’s leg, just above his knee. Ms. Potts seems to have seen it too, because she rolls her eyes and mutters something about how this happens every time. Bucky feels his jaw clench and a bolt spread its way through his body. He’s not okay with this. He’s never been less okay with anything in his life.

 

…

 

Steve was pretty sure Tony Stark was hitting on him. After Ms. Potts and Bucky had left them alone together, Tony had made a point of sitting down right next to Steve, placing a hand on his leg as he went on and on about how good a friend Steve must be to go through all of this for Bucky.

“Yes, well…” Steve managed, trying to slide away down the couch, but being held there by the friction between the upholstery and his slacks. He wondered if that was on purpose, if that was how Tony Stark got all his dates. He was immensely relieved when Ms. Potts brought Bucky back over and told them that everything was in order. Tony scooted away slightly and Bucky took the opportunity to fill the space between them, adopting a defensive posture. Tony gave Steve a knowing look as he stood up,

“I’ve got to run down to R&D for a minute, boys.” He said, “Be back in a jiffy with something for you to try.” Steve exhaled hard when Tony and Ms. Potts left the room. He smiled at Bucky, thanking him wordlessly for saving him from what was possibly the most awkward situation he’d ever experienced.

 

The arm was a perfect fit from the moment they strapped it in place. It was a good-looking piece of hardware, too. Clean, smooth lines in a bright chrome that sparkled in the sunlight. 

“The only thing about this model is that it’s not a hundred percent waterproof.” Tony explained, “So if you want to wear it in the shower you’re going to need some plastic wrap.” Bucky wasn’t listening, he was too busy flexing his new metal fingers, bending and extending his elbow. It really was amazing how little calibration the thing needed. Tony went off on some long-winded and very technical explanation about the placement of the electrodes in relation to the body’s own nerves, but Ms. Potts put a stop to that by pointing out that neither of the men in front of them were following in the slightest.

“What can I do to thank you?” Bucky asked, still in complete awe. Tony batted the question away with a wave of his hand,

“Oh whatever, it’s no big deal.” He said, “Just keep the lab posted every couple days and we’ll call it even.” Tony gave them each one last glass of fizzy water to toast with before sending them on their way. Steve wasn’t sure whether Bucky was going to start laughing or crying - possibly both - as they stepped into the elevator. He did neither, as it turned out, instead flinging both arms around Steve’s neck and pulling him in for a tight hug that lasted all the way to the lobby. 

“Thank you.” He whispered into Steve’s neck just before breaking the embrace. Steve chuckled.

“I’m not the one to thank for this. Go hug Stark.” He said. Bucky rolled his eyes.

“And here I was thinking we were having a moment.” He quipped as they walked through the lobby, “You know you can be a real meatball sometimes.” They reached the car, and Bucky took great pride in putting on his own seatbelt.

 

…

 

Bucky wonders if he always felt this way about Steve, jealous and protective. He can’t stop dwelling on their afternoon with Stark, about the incredibly obvious way the billionaire had thrown himself at Bucky’s friend and how oblivious Steve had been. The world is a dangerous place for people like Steve Rogers, he thinks as he chops tomatoes.

“Buck, watch it!” Steve exclaims. Bucky looks down and sees his new hand covered in crushed produce. He looks up apologetically.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” He says, moving away from the cutting board as Steve grabs a handful of paper towel.

“Don’t sweat it. Looks like it’s going to take some getting used to.” Steve takes Bucky’s metal wrist and starts cleaning the tomato goop off his hand. Bucky finds himself wishing he had feeling in his new arm more than anything in the world. Something about being physical with Steve makes him feel like himself again. He needs more.

“Do you want to give me a haircut after dinner?” He asks, the words coming forth before he has a chance to second guess.

“Wouldn’t you rather someone who knew what they were doing?” Steve asks in response. Bucky shakes his head.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Besides, people who know what they’re doing usually charge money.”

“Fair enough,” Steve agrees, “but it’s on you if I make you look like a total idiot.”

 

The haircut Steve gives him is pure bliss. He’s apprehensive, running his hands ever so lightly over Bucky’s scalp as he gathers up the hair at the back of his head.

“Now, you’re sure about this?” He asks, snipping the scissors once or twice for effect. Bucky nods.

“Go for it, pal.” He closes his eyes and leans into Steve’s hands as the last few strands are brought together. He hears the scissors come together and suddenly his head feels about a hundred pounds lighter. Steve trims and neatens the back before coming around to do the bangs. He looks so serious, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he works. He looks almost cartoonish, but Bucky somehow manages to keep himself from making a snide remark. Finally Steve sweeps Bucky’s hair to the side and announces that he’s done. Bucky gets up to look at himself in the mirror and barely recognizes his own face.

“I look downright—”

“Respectable.” Steve interrupts. 

“I was going to say handsome,” Bucky supplies, “but that works too.” He thanks Steve, who leaves him to sweep up. As soon as he’s sure Steve can’t see him anymore he smiles. He feels like this is how he’s supposed to look, the way he looks when Steve’s beside him in his dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

He’s drunk. Way drunker than he thought he was going to get tonight. It’s all he can do not to slide out of his seat and onto the floor every time the car makes a turn or hits a bump in the track. He’s pretty sure he’s the only one on the train, and he’s definitely alone in the car. If he weren’t he probably wouldn’t let himself act this giddy, but such as it is he’s giggling softly to himself, thinking fondly on the evening he’s just had. Steve had picked him up after work and they’d gone to Laughlin’s for dollar beers. He looks into his now empty wallet and wonders if maybe they took it a little too far, or at least if he did. Steve could always hold his liquor better and had seemed fine when he dropped him off at the station. Steve always has it together these days. He’s a far cry from the wimpy kid Bucky always had to look after, making sure he had his inhaler and his antihistamines and his EpiPen before they went on field trips. Steve can take care of himself now, and that’s the worst part. Soon he’s going to realize he doesn’t need to hang around Bucky anymore and he’s going to move on. He’s going to find some gorgeous blond hunk or quirky artistic girl to settle down with and there Bucky’ll be doing…whatever it is he’s doing with his life. He wishes he’d told Steve some of this tonight. He doesn’t know what he would have done afterwards, but at least it would be out there. Before he forms his next thought, he’s rocketed out of his seat by a sudden jolt of motion. The brakes scream and so does Bucky as the car rolls onto its side. The force smashes him up against the opposite window and his face shatters the glass. The screech of metal bent to its breaking point fills his ears and he can taste blood. He lifts himself up on his arms, but then the car collapses. Pressure and heat close in on all sides and then it’s all black.

 

…

 

Bucky was screaming in his sleep when Steve burst into the room. He rushed to the other man’s side and gathered him up in his arms. Bucky’s prosthetic arm clamped down on Steve’s wrist with crushing force and he winced, but tried to keep his voice even as he spoke.

“Bucky, wake up.” He said, gently patting Bucky’s face, “Wake up, Bucky, I’m here.” Bucky’s eyes flew open, staring right through Steve.

“The train…” he muttered, breathlessly. 

“You’re safe.” Steve soothed, “You’re at home now, it’s okay.” Bucky’s face softened, though the confusion didn’t leave him. “It’s me,” Steve went on, “it’s Steve.”

“Steve.” Bucky uttered, almost in disbelief before collapsing into his arms, “I was on the train. It…”

“You had a nightmare.” Steve reassured him, “I promise you’re okay now. I’m right here.” He could feel Bucky’s breathing hitch in a sob.

“Don’t leave me.” He whispered. Steve promised that he wouldn’t.

 

Steve couldn’t believe he’d let himself get complacent like that, but things had been going so well. He had forgotten that for all his progress, Bucky’s trauma went deep and they’d barely scratched the surface. He just wanted things to be like they were, but something told him that was never going to happen. He poured hot milk into a large mug of hot chocolate mix and brought it back into the bedroom. Bucky was sitting up in bed, a faraway look in his eyes. Steve held out the mug, waving it under Bucky’s nose until he came out of his reverie.

“How you doing?” He asked. Bucky just shook his head.

“I don’t know. I never had any details of the accident before. It was…” Steve reached up to rub his back.

“It’s okay,” he said, “you don’t have to talk about it.” Bucky glanced down at the arm with which Steve was holding the mug. He grimaced at the four dark red stripes he’d left there.

“Oh God,” he breathed, “did I do that?”

“It’s really no big deal.” Steve assured him, “I’ll get an ice pack on it and be right as rain in the morning.” That didn’t seem to make Bucky feel any better. He let his head fall forward, heaving a huge, groaning sigh.

“I promise I’ll get better.” He said, definitely, “I’ll get better and you won’t have to take care of me anymore.” Steve tutted and brought a hand to the back of Bucky’s neck.

“Don’t talk like that, Buck. It’s going to take as long as it takes, and I’m going to be here every step of the way. I’m with you till the end of the line.” Steve hadn’t intended to make Bucky cry, but that was exactly what happened. He draped his right hand over his eyes and sucked in a ragged breath. Steve guided his head down onto his shoulder and stroked his hair. After a couple minutes he managed to ease the two of them into the bed so Bucky was lying down. He tried to get up and leave his friend to sleep, but found himself once again gripped by cold, metal fingers. 

“Stay.” Bucky murmured, already dozing, “Just for a little bit.” 

 

…

 

Steve’s already awake by the time Bucky opens his eyes, though he’s pretending he isn’t.

“I know you’re awake, idiot.” Bucky grins. Steve tentatively cracks an eye open.

“I didn’t want to wake you by getting up.” He says. The two sit up and stretch before Steve asks, “How’re you feeling?” He thinks on it for a moment before replying.

“Never better.” He says, and it’s true. He hadn’t been able to remember what it was like to share a bed with someone, to sleep safe in the knowledge that another person was close by. Now, though, he’s not so sure he wants to go back to having a bed to himself ever again. “You know,” he tells Steve over coffee at the kitchen table, “you don’t have to keep sleeping on the couch.” Steve shakes his head.

“No, Bucky, you need that bed more than I do. I could never kick you out.”

“It is queen-sized.” Bucky points out, “Generally that’s considered enough room for two people. More if they’re tiny. Or children.” Steve takes a long, tense sip of his drink and Bucky wonders if he’s pushed him too hard.

“Are you sure you’d be comfortable with that?” He asks, “I take up a lot more room than I used to.” Bucky shrugs.

“Look, maybe it won’t work. Maybe it’ll be really weird and we’ll decide to go back to the old setup, but after everything you’ve been doing for me it doesn’t seem right not to at least offer.” Bucky injects every ounce of influence he can into his words and it seems to bring Steve around. He raises his hands in defeat.

“Fine.” He agrees, “We’ll give it a whirl tonight and see if it’s weird.” Bucky nods.

“Good.” He says and finishes his cup.

 

Bucky has come to the conclusion that Steve was lying when he said they’d never been a couple. There’s something positively forlorn in the way he looks at him and there’s a distance to his touch that’s a dead giveaway. He wonders over the course of the day whether he should bring it up somehow, confront him about it. He decides instead to see how Steve handles their sharing of the bed tonight. That will at least help him determine whether Steve still has feelings for him, which in turn will help guide his course of action. He can’t help but think that they would have been good together and hopes that once Steve can see him as something other than broken and fragile he’ll be willing to give them another shot. That’s what he’s striving for. He wonders if Dr. Romanov will accept that as a new recovery goal.

 

…

 

The prospect of their new sleeping arrangements had been weighing on the back of Steve’s mind all day. It had been one thing last night when Bucky had needed a steady presence with him to stop him physically shaking, but Steve couldn't justify this in his mind no matter how hard he tried. Luckily for him he had a deadline coming up, which forced him to focus on work, but in those moments when he wasn’t agonizing over how many movement lines should accompany a kick to a villain’s face, his mind inevitably wandered back to Bucky. It had been years since they’d shared that tiny apartment, too broke to afford space for more than one bed. Bucky had always been very gracious about it, just as he was being now. He wondered what his friend would have thought if he’d known what Steve had been thinking about every night when they’d lain down together. As he packed up his day’s work to send to the studio he went over a plan for getting through the night. He’d drink a cup of sleepy time tea half an hour before they went to bed and would avoid his computer for two hours previous to that. He’d sleep on his own side of the bed on his stomach to avoid rolling over in the night. He was sure that in the morning Bucky would decide to discontinue the experiment and Steve would happily oblige. Bucky probably didn’t even remember their studio apartment, so there wasn’t even any chance of the experience appealing to nostalgia. He felt much better, confident that he could bluff his way through one night. He’d been doing it nearly his whole life anyway.

 

The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. The effects of the tea were hitting Steve’s system right as he started to brush his teeth. Bucky stood beside him at the sink, running his fingers through his hair.

“I still can’t get used to having it this short.” He commented, “Feels like my head’s going to float away.” Steve huffed out a laugh through tight lips, trying harder than usual to force down the blush he could feel creeping up around his ears. He spat out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth, rushing out of the bathroom to give Bucky privacy to change. He came sauntering into the bedroom moments later in shorts and a tight t-shirt and Steve thought he might faint. They climbed into bed and Bucky chuckled.

“It’s been a long time since we did this.” He said, making Steve’s heart stop.

“I can’t believe you remember that.” He groaned, hoping it came out sounding jocular instead of defeated.

“I dreamt about it a few nights ago. Hard to believe with all your talent that you were ever that broke.” Steve needed him to stop talking, stop giving him opportunities to talk back and say something stupid. He just needed them to go to sleep. Bucky seemed to sense this, because the next words out of his mouth were “good night” and he rolled over away from Steve. Things were going according to plan, he thought as he positioned himself on his stomach at the edge of the mattress, maybe this would be okay after all. He thought that all the way up until he opened his eyes the next morning and found the top of his head nestled underneath Bucky’s chin.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve’s been avoiding him for two days now, ever since they tried sharing the bed, and it’s making Bucky feel like shit. Of course, Steve can’t avoid him physically. He works primarily from home and Bucky still can’t drive himself anywhere, so they see each other pretty much all day every day, but even when they’re in the same room, sitting literally inches away from each other on the couch, Steve’s not there. He won’t look Bucky in the eye, doesn’t speak in words more than two syllables when he can avoid it. It’s that stoicism again, which Bucky is beginning to realize borders on a martyr complex. It has to be a result of their Catholic upbringing, he thinks. He’s pretty sure he was raised Catholic. He doesn’t know what he’ll be able to do about it, if anything, but the way things are going right now is driving him out of his head, which is the last thing he needs.

 

“Sounds to me like he’s still pretty hung up on you.” Dr. Romanov says at their next session as she stretches out his hamstrings. Bucky’s excellent progress means that this is probably going to be one of their last visits. He’s going to miss her bluntness. 

“You think so?” He wonders, strapping on a pair of ankle weights, “Any relationship we had is a blank for me. I wonder if I’m just misinterpreting things.” Natasha shrugs.

“Look, I wasn’t there, you don’t remember, so they only person who knows for sure is Steve, right?”

“Right.” She shrugs again,

“Then it seems to me like the best thing to do is go to the source.” She crosses her arms and steps over to the other side of the room, “Alright, now show me thirty lunges, each leg.”

 

…

 

He did feel bad for being so cold to Bucky the last few days, but it was clear to Steve that he couldn’t be trusted not to take advantage of his friend’s vulnerability. Steve’s feelings were the last thing Bucky needed to deal with right now, and the last thing Steve wanted to deal with. He sat in a coffee shop on the first floor of the building that housed Dr. Romanov’s office, nibbling absently at a danish, periodically checking the time on his phone. He’d brought his sketch book and had it open to a half-finished drawing, having told himself he would do something productive this time while he waited for Bucky to get out. To his credit, he had spent some time tweaking the shading on the left half of a character’s face, but then he had realized he liked it better before and erased his progress. He leaned back in his chair, entwining his fingers behind his head and heaving a deep sigh.

“I thought that was you.” Said a voice from behind him. Steve whipped his head around and saw Tony Stark standing above him, a cup in each hand. He was craning his neck to look at Steve’s drawing. “Nice work.” He said, then asked if he could sit down. Steve nodded and gestured at him to take a seat. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Mr. Stark.” Steve said, gathering up his crumbs and replacing them on his place. 

“Tony, please.” Tony corrected. He slid one of the cups toward Steve, “I’m paying a visit to Dr. Romanov, actually, but I saw you sitting down here and thought I’d say hello.” 

“Well hello.” Steve smiled, allowing himself to relax a little. As creeped out as Stark had left him after their last encounter, it had been a long time since someone had bought him a cup of coffee. It was kind of nice, just so long as Tony behaved himself this time.

“So, how are things going?” He asked.

“You’d have to ask Bucky about that. He told me he’s been sending reports to your lab pretty frequently.” Tony just laughed,

“I meant with you.” He said, “Can’t be too easy being thrown into the role of round the clock caregiver. Even for a couple that’s not an easy dynamic to fall into.” 

“Bucky and I aren’t a couple.” Steve said, defensively. Stark smirked.

“You sure about that?” There was a long pause while Steve wracked his brain for how to even begin to respond to that. Tony burst out laughing, literally slapping his knee, “I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t mess with you, you look like you’re having a bit of a day.” He checked his watch and got up, taking a last sip of his coffee, “We should really do this again some time, when I’ve actually got more than five minutes.” He breezed past Bucky, who had just showed up at the door to the lobby. Steve got up to meet him, hastily packing away his sketchbook.

“Was that Stark?” Bucky asked hooking his thumb in the direction from which Tony had just left.

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed, “he’s got business with your doctor, apparently. How was your session?” They exited into the afternoon sunshine and Bucky paused for a moment to let it warm his face.

“She keeps her office so cold.” He said, stretching his hands skyward, “Every time I get out of there it’s like I’m coming out of cryostasis or something. Good session, though.” Steve nodded.

“That’s good.” He paused for a beat, “Listen…”

“I need to talk to you.” Bucky interrupted, taking the words right out of Steve’s mouth, “When we get home, I mean.”

“Everything okay?” He asked, concerned.

“Yeah, nothing dire.” Bucky replied, though he didn’t sound sure. Steve nodded his ascent but said nothing, unlocking the car and sliding into the driver’s seat.

 

…

 

He’s not sure how to begin. They walk into Steve’s apartment and Bucky can immediately feel the tension ratchet up a notch. He knows he said he wanted to talk when they got home, but he didn’t realize he wouldn’t even be allowed to take off his shoes or have a glass of water.

“So,” Steve says, dropping his shoulder bag on the kitchen counter, “what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Right to the chase,” Bucky marvels, “alright then. For starters I was wondering what’s been up with you these last few days, but I can tell that that line of conversation’s not going to lead anywhere productive, so I’ll just go ahead and ask why you haven’t been truthful with me.” Steve’s refusing to meet his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He says, curtly.

“Look,” Bucky continues, “I don’t know if maybe we had a fight or if I cheated or what, but I’m never going to know if you don’t talk to me about it!” Steve finally looks up, his brow knit in confusion.

“Seriously, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Why didn’t you tell me we’d been together?” He demands. Apparently the only way he’s going to get anything out of Steve is by laying it out in black and white. Steve sinks down, laying his elbows on the counter and covering his face.

“Oh no…” he groans, “Oh Bucky, you can’t be serious.” Bucky doesn’t understand why Steve refuses to just face facts. He looks up again and, seeing that Bucky’s now the one looking confused, goes on, “I didn’t tell you because it never happened, Bucky!” He walks over to the living room and Bucky follows. “We were always just friends.” That doesn’t sit right with Bucky, not after everything they’ve been through since the accident, not after everything he’s remembered from their past.

“That doesn’t make sense.” He says, “How can that be?” Steve laughs a bitter laugh.

“I’ve been asking myself that for years.” Bucky tentatively approaches Steve.

“But why?” He wonders, “I mean, if you felt that way for so long, why didn’t…” He can see the energy drain from Steve right then, the exhaustion of carrying this around with him all these years has finally proven too much. He sinks down onto the couch.

“Because you didn’t love me, Buck.” There’s a pain in his voice that Bucky’s never heard before. It scares him. Everything he knows of Steve is strength. Back when he was a scrawny kid with more courage than sense, when a stiff breeze could knock him over, Bucky still remembers thinking that he’s never known anyone with more fortitude. Seeing him worn out like this, knowing it’s because of him, breaks his heart. He delicately places himself in front of Steve, perching on the coffee table in front of the couch, and leans down on his elbows. He presses his lips together in a tight line, trying to sift through the words tumbling around in his brain.

“I think I did.” He says, finally, laying his right hand on Steve’s knee, “Anyway, I know I do now.” Steve raises his head and stares at Bucky for a second, wearing an expression that says he’s in no mood to be played with. After a tense moment, Bucky’s own earnest eyes seem to win him over because he leans forward and brings their mouths together in a searing kiss. Bucky sucks in a surprised breath, but quickly reciprocates, cupping Steve’s face in his hands. He can feel Steve flinch a little at the cold from his prosthetic limb, but it doesn’t seem to hamper them. Steve’s own hands snake their way around Bucky’s waist, pulling him closer. Somehow Bucky ends up in his lap, his legs bent outward in a wide straddle. He bites down on Steve’s lower lip, eliciting a deep, growling moan from the depths of his chest. Goosebumps rise on each of their arms. He tries to grind his hips down onto Steve, but inadvertently strains his bad leg, forcing him to break the kiss.

“You okay?” Steve asks, breathlessly. He looks like a deer in the headlights. Bucky slides off of him and leans back into the cushions, laughing.

“Just a little tweak.” He says, “Nothing major, but how about you? You look like you just got punched.”

“Kind of feels like it,” Steve remarks, “in a good way, though. You always said I’d learn to like getting punched.” Bucky massages his hip and leans in to plant a couple soft kisses behind Steve’s ear.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, “next time I’ll limber up.” Steve catches his face as he pulls away and presses their foreheads together, his thumb stroking he nape of Bucky’s neck.

“Take your time.” He says, “I can wait a little longer.”


	9. Chapter 9

Steve wasn’t a virgin, though just barely. He was always shy with girls and hadn’t exactly grown up in the most…rainbow adjacent community. He’d been beaten up enough in high school without any of the guys on the football team knowing he swung both ways. Besides, he only really had eyes for Bucky for as long as he could remember. That was what made this whole situation so surreal. He was pressed up against the headboard of his bed, his mouth splayed open under Bucky’s, eyes shut tight, greedily taking in every scent and sensation of the moment. He couldn’t keep his hands still, trailing them up and down every inch of the other man he could find, curling his fingers into tight fists in his clothes and hair. Bucky moaned into his mouth and Steve felt the sound course through him, rattling his ribcage and sending a shiver up his spine. He shifted forward - careful to brace Bucky’s bad hip and not move too suddenly - and brought his mouth to Bucky’s neck, nipping gently at his earlobe and relishing the shudder he felt in response. A pair of hands made their way to the front of his shirt, shakily trying to work the buttons.

“You want me to take care of those?” Steve asked, placing his own hands atop Bucky’s.

“No way,” he replied, “I can do this. What do you think all those sessions with Natasha were for?” He chuckled and slowly began to undo them one by one, leaning down to place a kiss over every new portion of exposed skin he revealed.

“I hope you didn’t do this with Natasha.” Steve grinned and lifted Bucky’s own shirt over his head. The two of them took a moment to just take in the image of themselves together. Never in a million years would Steve have thought something like this would happen between them. Bucky had a look on his face that said he had something similar in mind. Steve just hoped he wasn’t losing his nerve. As if to answer, Bucky brought their mouths together again, softly and sweetly, his hands finding their way into Steve’s hair. Steve could feel himself shaking both in nervousness and anticipation as Bucky kissed his way down his chest and abdomen toward his hips. He held out a hand to grasp his shoulder.

“Wait.” He gasped, “Don’t.” Bucky looked up with questioning eyes. Steve explained, “I want to do you first.”

 

Steve crouched in front of Bucky, sitting at the edge of the bed on top of a pillow for added support. He gently spread Bucky’s knees with his hands and undid his fly, drawing out the moment as he shifted Bucky’s hips to slide his jeans down to the floor. Bucky was already hard against the cloth of his briefs. Steve kissed the skin of Bucky’s thigh and felt the other man tense at the contact. He looked up, meeting his partner’s eyes.

“Everything okay, Buck?” He asked. Bucky let out a strained little laugh.

“Yeah, I guess I’m just nervous.” He replied. Steve laughed outright at that.

“Nervous?” He parroted, incredulously, “What’ve you got to be nervous about? You’ve done this a million times.”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember any of them.” Bucky shook his head, steadying himself, then gave Steve the go-ahead. He brought Bucky’s briefs down and wrapped a hand around his erection. He hoped he came across more confident than he felt as he took the tip into his mouth and flicked his tongue against it experimentally. He craned his eyes upward to watch for Bucky’s reaction and was relieved to see his head loll back and hear a moan escape his lips. Steve took Bucky deeper into his mouth, breathing in the scent of sweat and soap on his skin. He worked his mouth and tongue up and down Bucky’s length over and over again, feeling himself growing aroused in tandem with his partner. Bucky brought his hand up to rest on the top of his head, not offering direction, merely tethering them together.

“Fuck, Steve!” He hissed through clenched teeth, “God, right there!” Steve could feel Bucky coming apart in front of him, could hear the desperate whine he was barely keeping suppressed. At what must have been the last possible second, Bucky asked Steve to stop, said he didn’t want to finish yet.

“What’s the matter?” Steve asked. He could swear Bucky was blushing when he said,

“I want you to be inside me when I come.” It took all of Steve’s strength not to blow his top just from hearing him say that, but he nodded and wiped his mouth.

“I think I can manage that.”

… 

Despite what he said, Bucky’s not sure if he’s going to be able to wait that long. He’s back in Steve’s lap, stroking their cocks together as Steve lubes up a finger. He drops his head and plants a longing, lazy kiss on Steve’s lips.

“You sure you’re up to this, Bucky?” Steve asks, his blue eyes lifting to meet Bucky’s hazel ones, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not made of glass, Steve.” Bucky chides, affectionately. Steve nods and slips a finger between Bucky’s cheeks. He’s shocked by the cold and shivers as the finger makes its way inside him. Steve asks him if he’s okay and he nods, eyes clenched shut, unable to form words in the face of such an alien sensation. A second finger joins the first a few moments later, then Steve crooks them and Bucky’s seeing stars. He begs Steve to do that again and brings his hips down in reciprocation.  
“I think I’m ready.” He exhales, lifting his hips to position himself over Steve’s cock. He slowly lowers himself down as Steve removes his fingers. The lube is cold and Bucky feels stretched, but after a little while he’s ready to move. They find their rhythm surprisingly quickly and soon they’re both in a state of near-delirium. Bucky lets his head drop to Steve’s shoulder and wraps his arm around the blond’s back, muttering ecstatic gibberish into the crook of his neck. Steve’s jaw is clenched and his shallow, rapid breaths are rustling the hair behind Bucky’s ear. He starts jerking Bucky off as he fucks him and it’s all too much. Bucky buries his face in Steve’s neck, moaning deeply as he comes. He feels like he’s suddenly been submerged in warm water from the inside out. Steve’s there with him moments later, his face thrown skyward exclaiming the name of God before the fervour leaves him. They lie down together, spent and content. Steve wraps his arms around Bucky from behind and pulls him close.

“I love you.” He murmurs into Bucky’s nape.

“I love you too.” Bucky manages his reply with the last iota of energy he possesses. They doze like that for hours, entangled in each other, far away  
from the world.

 

When Bucky wakes up alone in Steve’s bed, his first instinct is to panic, moving swiftly through disorientation to the conclusion that he, in all his delusional, brain-damaged glory, has imagined last night’s entire encounter. He rolls onto his back, groaning and running his hand down his face, a feeling of hopelessness rising up in his gut. Until he turns his head and breathes in the scent of the pillow beside him, realizing it’s not his own. Moments later another aroma fills the room: the undeniable scent of a hearty breakfast being rustled up in the kitchen. Bucky pulls on a pair of pyjama pants, locates his other arm and makes his way down the hall into the other room. Steve is standing over the stove in a tight t-shirt and a pair of boxers, focusing intently on the contents of a frying pan. He hasn’t heard him come in yet and Bucky grins to himself as he tiptoes toward him. He gently lifts the bottom of Steve’s t-shirt and presses his cold metal palm to the small of his back. Steve yelps and flails, nearly inverting the pan in terror. He whips around and opens his mouth to deliver a chastisement, but Bucky doesn’t give him the chance, getting up on his toes to deliver a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. Steve catches his cheek and morphs it into something that Bucky can’t help but feel is far too dirty for this early in the day. Steve seems to have surprised himself as well, because he’s blushing when they part. Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Good morning.” He smirks, “What’s cooking?”

 

Steve has apparently been up since five in the morning judging by the sheer amount of breakfast he has prepared.

“Are we having people over this morning or something? Did you invite the neighbours to come celebrate the resolution of our sexual tension with us?” Steve takes a big sip of orange juice.

“You were still asleep when I got back from my run.” He admitted, “And I was too wired to come back to bed.” Bucky shook his head tenderly, sliding a platter of pancakes and French toast toward his side of the table,

“Here, have some more freakin’ flapjacks, punk.” He does nothing to disguise the affection or the incredulity in his voice. Steve defiantly stabs three pancakes with his fork and shovels them onto his plate, a challenging grin on his face.

“Thanks, jerk, maybe I will.” There’s something so easy about this, Bucky thinks, so comfortable. Not the comfort of the familiar, but the reassuring feeling that in the grand scheme of things, this is something that's supposed to happen. Certainty isn’t something Bucky’s used to these days, but it’s all he feels when he looks across the table at Steve.


	10. Chapter 10

They decide to celebrate Bucky’s final physio session with drinks. The night after Natasha officially declares him “suitably rehabilitated”, he and Steve invite her to meet them at Laughlin’s Pub. He’s surprised when he learns that the three of them are among the last of their party to arrive. Bucky walks through the front doors to a round of raucous applause. He turns back to look at Steve, who is grinning like an idiot and clapping along.

“I hate you.” Bucky smirks. Steve grabs him from behind in a close hug and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

“Love you too, Buck.” He says. A brawny man with a red moustache saunters up to them, arms open wide.

“So, Rogers,” he laughs, “finally worked up the stones to tell him, did you?” Steve removes himself from Bucky’s back and shakes hands with the man.

“Good to see you, Tim. Thanks for coming.” Tim Dugan, Bucky reminds himself. Steve had been quizzing him on the names and faces of all their friends from high school over the last few days and it’s finally dawning on Bucky exactly why. Dugan moves on from Steve and clasps Bucky’s hand, firmly.

“How’re you doing, Barnes?” He asks, earnestly, clapping a hand to Bucky’s prosthetic shoulder. If he’s surprised or disturbed he doesn’t show it. Dugan doesn’t give him a chance to answer before he begins steering him toward their party, “Come on, I’ll re-introduce you around.”

 

Bucky recognizes some of the people he’s confronted with at their double-wide booth. Jim Morita and Monty Falsworth he remembers from their London trip. Gabe Jones and Jacques Dernier he can’t place as easily, though they’re very understanding. Everyone has something congratulatory to say regarding Bucky and Steve’s relationship, which is a relief, though they all feel the need to make some kind of joke or saucy remark along with it. The whole thing is a little overwhelming, and Bucky finds himself spending most of the evening downing beers from the relative safety of his position sitting between Steve and Natasha.

“We’ve had a bet since sophomore year.” Jim says, “Gabe said it’d never happen, but I never gave up hope. I had good money riding on it, after all.” Steve laughs,

“So, how much do you owe him, then?” He asks Gabe, who bitterly takes a sip of his beer.

“Not a damn cent.” He insists, “Bets go stale after ten years.” Jim counters with the assertion that that’s not the case and that, in fact, he should be collecting interest. They bicker back and forth on it or a while before Steve puts a stop to the discussion by ordering another round for the table. 

“Saving the day as always.” Bucky remarks as Steve sits back down. Steve squeezes his knee under the table.

“I just can’t stay out of a fight.”

 

…

 

Steve somehow found himself roped into playing designated driver to Dugan, Gabe and Dernier, so the car was a bit rowdier than he had anticipated on the way home. Dugan tried to call shotgun as they staggered out of the bar, but Bucky shot him a skeptical look and he conceded.

“Oh, I see how it is!” He slurred, good-naturedly, forcing Dernier into the middle seat in the back. Steve climbed into the driver’s seat and buckled himself in before instructing his passengers to do the same.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not physically possible.” Gabe griped, his face and hands pressed up against the window, “You got to think about getting yourself a bigger car.”

“Yeah, well it’s usually not filled to the brim with drunk knuckleheads.” Steve quipped in return. Dernier insisted he wasn’t drunk as he dozed on Dugan’s shoulder. Steve turned to Bucky, “I wish I could say that they’re usually better company, but…” Bucky pecked him on the lips and showed him a dopey, tipsy grin.

“By all means take your time!” Dugan complained from the back seat, “I’m pretty sure Jim and your doctor friend have made it home on foot already!” Bucky giggled and Steve rolled his eyes and started the car. They got rid of their passengers one by one before winding their way back home. Bucky was a little unsteady on his feet, so Steve held him around the waist until they got through the front door. It was a struggle to get their shoes off in the foyer, and Steve didn’t even bother to try and convince Bucky he needed to get changed into pyjamas. He laid him down in his bed - in their bed, he realized suddenly - and detached his arm, laying it on the nightstand for easy access in the morning. Bucky groaned contentedly and reached up to take Steve’s hand.

“You’re amazing.” He said. Steve sat down beside him, stroking the inside of Bucky’s wrist with his thumb.

“You’re drunk.” He smiled. Bucky shook his head as hard as his exhausted body would let him.

“No,” he insisted, “you don’t get to change the subject. I love you, and it seems pretty clear to me at this moment that I have always loved you because you are amazing.” Steve lay down next to Bucky, draping an arm across his chest.”

“I love you so much,” he answered, “and I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you.” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“You know how you can make it up to me?” He asked, wearily, “Stop apologizing and go to bed. Nobody blames you but you, anyway.” Steve let out a sigh and curled himself around Bucky, who was already halfway to sleep. He drew the duvet up over them and let his eyelids fall shut.

 

Steve came into the bedroom the next morning after a run to find Bucky’s clothes strewn all over the bed. The man himself was folding his drawers and rolling them into neat little cylinders before setting them aside.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, nonchalantly.

“Packing up.” Bucky explained, as though it weren’t obvious, “I figure if you’re not working this afternoon you can just drop me back at my place.” Steve’s face fell. He knew that the time would come when Bucky didn’t need to be under his care 24/7 anymore, but he’d kept putting the thought at the back of his mind. Now it was staring him in the face and he wasn’t prepared to deal with it. As he watched Bucky pairing his socks he wracked his brain for something to say, at least to relieve the growing tension in the room.

“You could stay!” He blurted out incomprehensibly before fully considering the potential consequences. Bucky turned suddenly, regarding Steve quizzically.

“What?” Steve felt himself going very red and tried his best to backtrack.

“I mean, you don’t have to. Only if you want to.” Bucky shook his head.

“No, I didn’t understand you. You just shouted some gibberish.” He clarified. Steve took in a deep breath. This was a second chance. An opportunity to take it back if he wanted to. Yes, he thought, that was a good idea.

“You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.” Dammit. To his surprise, Bucky seemed to be considering it.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” He asked. Steve nodded.

“I mean, you kind of already did. I was just wondering if you wanted to make it…permanent.” His heart exploded when Bucky overturned his half-packed suitcase, dumping his clothes back onto the bedspread.

“Alright.” He said, “Sure. Half my crap’s here anyway.” Steve let out a bark of relieved laughter and hugged Bucky tight. “I’ve got one condition, though.” He went on.

“What’s that?”

“You are never allowed to sleep on the couch again.” Steve nodded in mock-solemnity. 

“If you insist.”

 

…

 

They decide not to bother getting the rest of Bucky’s stuff until tomorrow. That’s when they’ll take care of getting Bucky’s name on Steve’s lease and all the other boring administrative parts of taking a leap of faith in their relationship. Until then they’re focusing on the mushy, romantic side of it. Steve opens a bottle of sparkling apple cider since they don’t have any champagne and they toast over the remnants of three kinds of takeout because they don’t have…anything else really. Bucky tells Steve it’s the most enjoyable dinner he can imagine.

“Yeah, well that’s not saying much, is it?” Steve jokes in return.

“Wow!” Bucky gapes, “You know, I really don’t remember you being such a jackass.” Steve takes a bite of what looks like a mixture of General Tso’s chicken and saag paneer and cringes briefly at his mistake before replying,

“I’m deeply mysterious, Buck. I have many hidden depths.” He quickly gives up on his fusion cuisine abomination and asks Bucky what movie he wants to watch tonight.

“Why do I have in my mind that you love The Wizard of Oz?” Bucky wonders.

“Because I do.” Steve replies, “It was the first movie you and I ever went to on our own without our parents. We were 12.”

“The 60th anniversary screening.” Bucky remembers. He suggests they watch it again tonight and Steve happily agrees. Bucky cues it up while Steve takes care of the dishes and they regroup on the couch. Bucky can’t help but think that this is a little bit soppy, the two of them snuggling like teenagers listening to Judy Garland sing “Over the Rainbow”, but he hasn’t had soppy in his life for a long time and it’s endearing how enraptured Steve is by this movie.

“You know you’re a grown man.” Bucky reminds him. Steve shoves Bucky gently.

“Yes, and that means I get to decide which 1930s movie musicals I watch,” he says, adding, “and with whom.” Bucky doesn’t feel the same nostalgia for the movie as Steve does. Most of it’s pretty unfamiliar, after all, but he finds himself able to enjoy it vicariously, which is enough. Over the last few days the blank spots in his memory have stopped bothering him as much. Whatever he had in the past was gone. Now he has a big dorky boyfriend who loves musicals and comics, and he has a future spread in front of him to fill with new memories, most of which will hopefully feature Steve in one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoomp! There it is. I can't help but feel like this thing got a little out of hand (and I hope I didn't cause any sugar comas with the last few chapters in particular), but thank you all for your kind feedback and for sticking with me. 
> 
> Bless this mess.


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